


Vienna Calling

by Jennytheshipper



Category: A Perfect Spy - John le Carré, Chernobyl (TV 2019), Smiley's People - John Le Carré
Genre: A number of characters borrowed from John Le Carre, Drug Use, Espionage, F/M, Fix-it fic, M/M, crossover to the LeCarre universe, graphic depcitions of sex, references to Falco, unnecessary specificity about cars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-05
Packaged: 2020-06-09 12:33:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 14,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19476001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jennytheshipper/pseuds/Jennytheshipper
Summary: The events of Vienna conference in August 1986, seen through the eyes of Boris Shcherbina, with a coda a few years later. Mostly canon compliant, or at least canon adjacent. Apologies to history, Craig Mazin and John Le Carré.





	1. August 26, 1986, 7:00 p.m.

**Author's Note:**

> This is fanfiction based on the mini-series Chernobyl (2019) a work of fiction, depicting real people and historical events. This writing is not meant in any way to defame or disrespect the brave souls who sacrificed to save Europe after the Chernobyl nuclear disaster. Nor is it meant to embarrass or in any way harm their descendants
> 
> Special thanks to [Idlesuperstar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/idlesuperstar/pseuds/idlesuperstar) whose beta work, cheerleading, input, and RESEARCH AND STUDY gifsets, were invaluable to me. 
> 
> The fic makes references to the excellent ideas put forth in [pottedmusic's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/potted_music/pseuds/potted_music) fic, [combinatorics.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19161901) Thanks to pottedmusic for helping with the dreaded patronymic naming as well as providing lots of background detail about The Region.

_Valery Legasov (leader of the Russian Delegation) addressed the International Atomic Energy Agency conference in Vienna, Austria on the disaster at the Chernobyl Nuclear plant in the Ukraine. Legasov spoke for five hours pausing only for a short lunch break, accompanied by Boris Scherbina, (vice-chairman of the Council of Ministers for the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics)_ _,_ _then took questions for another two hours._

Boris is tired in his soul. Since lunch he has done nothing but sit in the back of the air conditioned auditorium and keep his feet from falling asleep. He is watching Legasov being interviewed now via satellite for the _Today_ show in America. Legasov says “good morning” to the disembodied head on the screen and Boris has a strange feeling of timelessness, as if he’s been in this room forever. There is a delay between questions, a delay while Valera thinks of his answers and a delay for the interpreter to phrase them into a soft, melodious English reply; a long delay while the satellite transmits the answer to America; another delay while the reporter-- a blonde whose padded shoulders make her look like a fierce green triangle--takes in the answer and formulates another question. Maxim Arkadyovich, the interpreter, looks like he wants to put a gun in his mouth. It is, to say the least, difficult to watch. 

When they had set off for the conference at the airport in Moscow, Boris had been expectant, excited even, at the prospect. His first trip to the West. A chance to be alone with Valera. But that enthusiasm has been ground down by the packed schedule and the realization that they are being watched as closely as ever, if not more so. He had eagerly flipped through the _Willkommen in Wien_ tourist brochure, imagining he and Valera visiting the Prater amusement park and the Mozarthaus. So far all he had seen was the inside of his lonely hotel room and the conference center. As the head of the delegation, Legasov is in demand every second. Boris feels a bit forgotten as he tags along behind.

Still, it was worth the trip just to see Valera in action in his element. It almost a little disquieting to see him so in control, when Boris has grown used to and even a little fond of, Valera's awkward and undiplomatic manners. Is this even the same man who caused Gorbachev to hang up on them? But the academic conference is Legasov’s arena and Boris chalks this change in Valera to his confidence in a familiar place. Boris can’t help but feel proud of him as he dodges the difficult questions, giving answers that reveal some but not all of the truth. He makes the Soviet case in a passionate way, without seeming biased. He makes it seem like he is defending the truth, not merely defending his country. When the sessions get heated and Western scientists try to pin him down on specifics, Legasov buries them in detail. An avalanche of data. Boris can see them running their calculators in their seats and wishes them luck keeping up with Legasov’s pace.

Boris would very much like to tell Valera how proud he is of him, imagining the embarrassed smile, the faint blush at hearing Boris praise him. But it is not a good idea to indulge these thoughts now. Later on, in his own in his hotel room. For now, the endless interview grinds on, and the disjointed echoey audio bounces around the hall mercilessly. 

Boris picks idly at an empty styrofoam coffee cup. His stomach growls. They served some cake a while back--it is drying out on a platter on a table nearby-- maybe he should have another piece? Or save a piece for later? Wrap it in a napkin, perhaps. But then he would be a poor representative of the Union. What would people think if it looked like he was starving, hoarding food? It was foolish to waste food. He does not see Hans Blix eating another piece of cake. If Hans Blix gets more cake, then he will. He has decided. 

The interview is finally over and Boris, Valery and Maxim are bundled into a BMW and driven to dinner with their Viennese hosts from the IAEA. The Austrians keep the conversation light, inquiring whether the Soviet delegation would like to tour the Mozarthaus before returning to Moscow. Boris perks up at the idea, but one look at Valera who still holds the glassy expression he had before the lights of the satellite link-up, make him demur with a vague “perhaps.” Boris finishes his schnitzel and looks worriedly at Valera’s plate which has barely been touched. He relaxes a bit at dessert, when Valera eats two pieces of layered cake and downs three cups of coffee. 

It is a balmy summer night and Vienna is full of tourists in pastel golf shirts and loafers worn without socks. Across the restaurant Boris spots their KGB Minders: two men sweating in black suits, narrow black ties and heavy black shoes, trying their best to look inconspicuous. They remind Boris of a pair of crows waiting on a fence.

Back at their hotel, Valera lingers at the front desk, while the night manager retrieves an envelope from the safe. The desk clerk hands Boris a fist full of phone messages written on yellow hotel paper. He folds them into his pocket, planning to read them later. Poor, exhausted Maxim Arkadyovich bids them good night and Boris watches enviously as he disappears into the polished brass elevator, whisked away to a three star bed for a much-deserved night’s rest. Boris hopes that he and Valera can grab a drink at the hotel bar, and that under the guise of patriotic enthusiasm, Boris will gush over Valera’s performance at the conference.

Valera stuffs the envelope inside his suit jacket and looks around the lobby, checking over one shoulder then the other before leaning in and whispering, “Do me a favor and get us a cab.” Boris studies him before complying with the request. Valera’s face is still impassive, but there is a look in his eyes, glinting behind the thick, square glasses, that Boris has never seen before. If he didn’t know better he would swear it was a look of mischief.

Boris feels suddenly awake and alive as they walk through the revolving door of the hotel into the hot summer evening air. They are just leaving in their cab when their minders arrive from the restaurant. Valera asks the driver in halting German to drop them at the “Blauer Diamant.” The driver weaves through backstreets and Valera watches out the back window for any sign of their minders shadowing them. 

“What’s going on, Valera?”

“I just thought we should enjoy Vienna while we have the chance. On our own.” 

Valera’s words thrill him. It is exactly what he’s hoped. 

“I think the Mozarthaus is closed,” Boris teases, with a half smile. 

Valera laughs and clamps his hand on Boris’ knee. Boris’ heart lurches as Valera’s hand burns hot through the leg of Boris’ trousers.They slide down in their seats, safe - for the time being - from Minders and microphones. The car moves silently--too silently--he could use the rumbling cover of a Volga. Boris takes a last nervous look at the rear view mirror to make sure the driver is minding his own business before leaning over to plant a hard kiss on Valera’s mouth. Valera kisses him back urgently, tugging Boris by the lapels, bringing him up almost out of his seat. You would not know it to look at him, but Valera is surprisingly strong. Boris dearly hopes this “Blau Diamant” is some kind of hotel. Their couplings, the stifling nights in Pripyat, seem long ago though it’s only been a few weeks. Between fear of the Minders, the microphones and the crushing work schedule, there was never enough time for them. Boris breaks the kiss, and works one hand under Valera’s jacket, smoothing his hand along the rumpled white front of his shirt, while the other traces the sensual curve of Valera’s top lip. Such a pretty mouth, especially when he smiles. 

Valera loosens his tie and undoes the top two buttons of his shirt, giving him access to the hollow of his neck. Boris’ heart races at the thought of Valera’s little two button strip tease. This is Valera knowing how much Boris wants him and obliging. And it sends Boris hard, so that has to shift uncomfortably in his seat. Boris’ fingers move on to the bare skin of his neck, skimming along to his collarbone. He keeps an eye on the driver who is fiddling with the cab’s radio. Boris sinks down further in his seat, till his head is below Valera’s, reaching up to plant kisses along his jawline before settling in and sucking hungrily at his bare neck. Valera’s hand moves up Boris’ thigh, gripping tighter. Jesus fuck. They won’t make it to this Blue Diamond hotel. 

The cab stops with a jolt. Boris reluctantly leaves Valera’s neck alone for the time being. They are parked under a neon blue diamond marquee. In the blacked out window there is a neon woman whose dress falls off and then magically reappears a few moments later. Boris sighs and sits up in his seat, while Valera pays the driver. He does his best to hide his erection as he gets out of the car. Thank Christ for baggy suit pants.

Inside, the Blue Diamond1is deafening with the thud of electronic music and Boris almost chokes on the thick, strawberry scented fog that squirts out of unseen portals in the ceiling. There are lights that spin, lights that flash and a spotlight cuts through the mirk like the beam from a lighthouse. On stage, two women in leather kiss while a naked man in chains patiently awaits a beating. At the door, Legasov asks for “Otto” but the man at the door says that Otto is no longer here. He introduces himself as Andre. They are shown to a booth with high sides and a privacy curtain. Before Andre leaves, Valera hands him two crisp American hundred dollar bills from the envelope in his breast pocket, with instructions to deliver a bottle of champagne to any men in black suits who come looking for them.

“Why shouldn’t they enjoy themselves too?” Valera asks smiling, folding his money back into his jacket.

“What the hell is that?” Boris says, staring at the envelope.

“It’s called a ‘stipend.’ Isn’t it wonderful? They gave me a choice of bank draft or cash in a variety of currencies.”

“Very nice,” Boris says, shaking his head. “But, what are we doing here, Valera!?” Boris asks having to raise his voice above the music. And then leaning in speaking lower in Valera’s ear, “I thought we were going to a hotel. To be alone.”

“We will, we will,” Valera says with a grin that sends Boris’ heart racing at the prospect. “But it’s early and you haven’t seen anything of Vienna.”

“Yes, but this place. It’s so...”

“Seedy?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t be a prude, Boris. Relax.”

When was he ever a prude? Boris thinks, offended. He looks around, put off by the decadent atmosphere, the noise that passes for music, the stink of the artificial fog. 

“Trust me,” Valera says and puts his hand over Boris’ hand. It is enough. Boris calms down. He toys with Valera’s hand a moment before he remembers Valera’s interaction at the door.

“Who is this Otto? If I didn’t know better I would think you were a regular here,”

They are interrupted by a topless woman bearing a tray of drinks: brandy for Valera, vodka for Boris and a tiny plastic bag with white powder. “A gift from Andre,” she says. 

“I have no idea what to do with this,” Valera complains to the waitress, indicating the bag of powder.

The waitress laughs and scrambles into the booth, climbing over Boris and into Valera’s lap. Boris reaches up and draws the curtain around the three of them. He has the distinct feeling that they are being watched, but he can’t see the Minders anywhere. Boris sits down again, a bit stunned, not quite able to parse what is happening as the girl, Lola, makes a neat line of powder on each of her breasts. He is beginning to wonder if he knows Valera at all. 

“Do you have ten schillings?”

“I have ten dollars,” Valera says fishing in his jacket. He thumbs through his stipend and hands a bill to her. 

She rolls it up deftly and places it next to her nose. “You sniff, like this.”

She hands the bill to Valera who looks anxiously at the line of powder. “You go first, Boris,” he says handing over the bill. 

Boris tries his best to seem casual, like this is a thing he does every day. He inhales through the tube, sucking up a tiny bit of the powder. He feels nothing. He takes a bit more until he finishes the line. Still nothing. He is deeply conscious of the soft, pliant flesh inches from his face. He has mostly averted his eyes to this point but now he looks his fill, but is not quite bold enough to touch her. His knee is jammed up against Valera’s and, Jesus fuck, Valera grips hold of Boris’ thigh and squeezes it.

Now, it is Valery’s turn and he is more awkward even than Boris. There are several starts and stops. An attempt to switch nostrils. Apologies. 

“It’s alright,” Lola says and sweeps the rest of the powder onto the back of her hand. She vaccuumes it up at once and exhales with a contented sigh. Valery looks uncomfortable, shifting her from one knee to the other, and she turns her attention to him, loosening his collar. 

“Aha! What’s this?!” She asks pointing to Boris’ mark on Valera’s neck.

Valera actually blushes.

“Who did this? You naughty boy!” She touches the tip of her finger to Valera’s nose.

Valera nods toward Boris.

“You! Oh dear,” she says, putting up a professional pretense of disappointment.”Well, perhaps you would like it if I left you two alone.”

“That would be fine,” Valera says calmly. “Tell Andre ‘thanks for the present’.”

She kisses him on the cheek, clambers over Boris and is gone before they can issue a fake protest.

Boris takes Valera’s chin in his hand, moving him toward the light so he can inspect the mark on his neck: a purple bruise, roughly the shape of Boris’ mouth rising freshly from the pale, white flesh. A love bite. He smiles and kisses him. His blood is thin in his veins. He feels corrupt. Powerful. Valera puts his hand on Boris’ thigh, spanning across the outline of Boris’ cock through his trousers. 

Jesus fuck. He wants to take him now, could almost imagine it possible, in this place. But Valera pulls back mopping his brow with a handkerchief.

“Patience, love. The night has just begun.”

Love. He called him “love.” His face burns. His cock aches. Valera’s hand moves up and rests on Boris’ belly.

“God, yes, please,” Boris growls in Valera’s ear.

“Undo your belt,” Valera says in a desperate hoarse whisper.

Boris looks around guiltily, checks the curtains are secure and slides his ass forward in the booth to give himself room to undo his trousers.There is a pause while Valera swirls the brandy in the glass, looks casually around at nothing, ignoring Boris sitting exposed and cold. Boris knows he’s being teased, and the more he reacts the worse it will be, but he grabs the glass out of Valera’s hand, and places it back on the table with a snap, never taking his eyes off Valera, who gives a partial gap-toothed grin. Boris melts. He was one second from putting his hands on Valera’s shoulders to shake him but now he cups Valera’s head behind the ear and pulls him into a kiss. He tastes of brandy and cigarettes. 

Valera takes out a small black plastic packet, like the sort used in the West for ketchup and mustard, and opens it. He squirts the clear goo into his palm and works it around with his thumb. 

“Where did you get that?”

“Machine in the men’s room.”

For the first time in his life Boris thinks that capitalism may have its good points. This is the last thing he thinks before Valera grabs hold of his cock with a slick hot hand. Boris makes a tiny noise like an animal being stepped on. Valera strips back his foreskin expertly, worries his wet thumb across the attachment point before slipping two fingers around his balls. Boris is quite literally in Valera’s hands, rock hard, jutting up through Valera’s fingers. Jesus fuck. He looks down briefly but thinks he might come too soon. On stage, the slave is bent across a chair, bare ass to the world, being beaten by the ladies in time to the music. Boris looks there but does not see. He is thinking of the first time he let Valera fuck him in the abandoned apartment in Pripyat. The tender, methodical way he explored him, taking in every particle of data in Boris’ movements, noting every point of pleasure, avoiding pain where possible. And it is the same now, Valera has mapped every millimeter of Boris’ cock with a scientist’s concern for the truth and an almost ruthless disregard for the effect he is having on Boris. For some reason, this calculating, slightly impersonal way of touching drives Boris to distraction. He feels trapped, desperate to escape, but not wanting the release not yet. Just a few more exquisite moments. Jesus fuck: Valera’s hand moves quickly in time to the music, his fist tightening with each tinny, electronic drumbeat. Boris clamps his eyes shut, leans back, clenches his body entirely, gritting his teeth, curling his toes. He comes hard. Valera is ready with his handkerchief. Boris can do nothing but laugh, a giddy, ragged noise rising up from somewhere deep in his tired soul.

Boris sits up groggily, makes a half-hearted effort to zip his fly. Valera is discreetly folding his handkerchief away in his coat pocket. Boris leans over to kiss him. Valera’s mouth is firm and he barely kisses back. Boris looks at him, puzzled, and then Valera hisses in his ear “suck me off.” The urgency in his voice, and the commanding tone remind Boris of their first encounter in the helicopter, when Boris threatened to have him killed and Valera stood up to him anyway. Boris feels his face flush with anger and desire.

Boris looks down and for the first time notices that Valera’s trousers are unzipped and he has worked his cock out of his underwear. It sits there pink, half hard, waiting. This somehow happened while he was jerking Boris off. He takes a moment to admire Valera’s dexterity and composure, before he leans over slowly, breathing hot on him, hoping to tease him, to get his revenge for earlier. He slowly pulls the foreskin back and places the tip of his tongue on the attachment point, flicking it across the hard nub there. Valera leans back, pulling Boris’ head into place and to Boris’ surprise, wastes no time pushing his cock straight to the back of Boris’ throat. So much for teasing. Boris relaxes his jaw as much as possible, thinks of the slick force of Valera’s hand on him and feels a twitch of desire in his belly. It is enough. Boris’ jaw floats open further. Once or twice he almost loses out to his gag reflex, but he hangs on as Valera winds his fingers into Boris’ hair and fucks his face. 

“Oh God. Oh God.” Valera cries, his voice pained, plaintive, reedy and thin. And that noise, that animal noise opens Boris further. He leans into him, jaw aching, until his nose is buried in Valera’s pubic hair. Valera comes, a hot jet that goes straight down Boris throat into his stomach. There is no taste. Only heat. Like vodka. He feels the weight of Valera’s torso collapse on top of him, shaking with laughter. They sit still for a minute, like disused puppets waiting for a new master. 

Slowly Valera straightens up and Boris extricates himself from his lap, brushing his hand against the red curls of pubic hair, seeing up close for the first time the flushed skin and faint line of freckles leading to his belly. Boris sighs. They should be on a beach somewhere in the sun, bare-assed and sandy. They should be swimming naked under the black mirror of a cold lake by moonlight. They should... they should have more goddamn time.

Boris straightens up stiffly. Valera pours him a drink from the bottle of vodka and Boris slams it back and says “ahhhh.” Valera laughs and then Boris throws his arm around him, kissing the top of his dear head. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. The Blue Diamond, in Smiley's People is in Hamburg, Germany. I decided it was possible that Herr Kretschmar, the owner, opened up a chain. He was an excellent businessman. Otto Leipzig, Kretschmar's friend and employee, was dead by this point, having been murdered by Karla's people.


	2. August 27, 1986, 12:15 a.m.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Blue Diamond changes everything.

Boris’ mind is reeling with questions as Valera leads him out the back door of the club, to a waiting car: Where did you hear about the Blue Diamond? Who is Otto? Have the Minders spotted us? Where are we going now? But before he can ask them, Andre inserts himself between Boris and Valera in the back seat.

Andre is a tiny man with an enviable head of thick black hair, slicked back in the manner of the Austrian pop star whose face is plastered everywhere in Vienna these days. Andre’s body is swallowed up by a comically large, rumpled linen suit and Boris wishes Andre were anywhere but where he is, chatting away in half German/half Russian, filling the car with smoke. Boris rolls down the window and hangs his head out like a dog, feeling the warm, humid night air on his face. The cocaine did nothing to counteract the vodka and exhaustion, but he wonders if it is responsible for this feeling of recklessness that has gripped him. He stifles the urge to whistle at a group of girls in mini skirts lined up outside a nightclub.

Andre is offended that Boris has circumvented the car’s air conditioning. But it’s too late, Valera has his window down too and is gawping out at the passing city. Boris digs in his pocket for his pack of American Marlboro cigarettes and finds instead the stack of notepaper from the hotel.

“What’s that, Boria?”

“Messages. Mostly from Comrade Khomyuk. She called...four times.”

“She is probably mad about the six pages of data 1 that I left out of my report.”

Boris nods and touches his fingers to his lips briefly as a sign for Valery Legasov to shut his mouth. He doesn’t know this Andre; doesn’t know if the car is bugged or not.

“Or maybe she is mad about what happened. Do you know what happened?” 2

“Of course I know. I was there, remember?” Boris snaps. "I put you to bed, afterward.”

“I wonder why she’s calling you?”

“She knows I will call her back.”

“Maybe she likes you.”

“She doesn’t like me. She hates me.”

“She hates me as well,” Valera says with a half smile. “It didn’t stop her. You never can tell.”

Boris has a mental flash of Ulana half naked in the booth, sitting in Valera’s lap, examining Boris mark on his neck. He pushes it aside and stuffs the yellow notes back in his pocket. “Andre, my friend, you don’t have a cigarette do you?”

+++

The club is too crowded and noisy for comfort. They are wedged against the bar, as waves of young American airmen in blue uniforms squeeze past, followed by a troupe of punk girls in mohawks. Andre leans heavily across the bar trying to secure a round of drinks as Boris and Valery share a smoke. Boris is staring at Valera who is watching the dance floor.

“What the hell are we doing here?” Boris grumbles, feeling a thousand years too old for the place.

“I was wondering if you wanted to dance with me,” Valera shouts back, straining his voice above the music. It’s a wonder he can speak at all given the day he’s had.

Boris looks at him in disbelief, but then follows Valera’s eye to a couple of airmen who are slow dancing to the too-fast music. He glances around: two of the punk girls are kissing. He laughs and takes Valera by the hand and leads him out to the dance floor. They stand there for a moment: Boris flushed with heat and nerves, with one eye on the door for their minders. Valera’s glasses fog up in the swelter of bodies in August and Boris has to guide his fumbling hand to rest on his shoulder. He takes hold of Valera’s waist, feeling the lean flesh, where just weeks ago there was a little roll. Boris has got to get him to eat better.

Boris knows the polka and some Ukranian folk dances he learned as a boy. None of those are appropriate so they just sway vaguely to the deafening beat and Boris pulls Valera closer. Valera’s breath in Boris’ ear sends a shiver down his spine.

The music changes to a synth-pop tango 3 and all around them the punks and airmen strut clumsily and dip awkwardly in an embarrassing parody of the dance. Offended, Boris’ spine straightens almost involuntarily and he pulls Valera closer, until he feels the press of Valera’s hip bone against his own. Boris moves his thigh against Valera’s, creating further heat with the friction. His cock twitches and he can feel Valera respond in turn. He tightens his grip on Valera’s waist, presses with his hand into Valera’s shoulder. Somehow, miraculously Valera takes the cue and they begin to move together in the same direction. He starts slowly at first, working in a small box of open space and then widening their path to edge of the dance floor. The crowd applauds and whoops in appreciation. Boris is flush with dancing and more than a little embarrassment.

When the music is done, they join Andre at the bar for beer and vodka. Boris drinks his beer quickly, mopping his sweaty brow with his sleeve. Valera takes his glasses off and wipes them on his tie.

“I figure we have until six,” Valera says, looking at his watch.

“Why six?”

“That’s when the day shift comes on. The night shift won’t tell Charkov they’ve lost us. He’d kill them. I figure we’re safe for a few more hours.”

“Let’s get the fuck out of here, then. What are we waiting for?”

“What about Andre?”

“Let him find his own way home. There’s got to be a hotel around here somewhere.”

“You were wonderful, Boria.” Valera says hoarsely, gazing up at him. “Who knew you could dance the tango?”

“I had forgotten, myself. Listen, I’m serious about leaving.”

“Alright, alright.” Valera says, snaking his arm behind Boris’ back. “Andre! We’re going to call it a night, my friend. Thank you for everything.”

“It is my pleasure, Valery Alekseyovich. Do you want me to give you a ride somewhere?”

“I think we can manage,” Valera says and they head out arm in arm onto the street.

“Now what?” Boris asks.

“I think we passed a hotel on the way to the club,” Valera says pointing north.

“I remember that, but it was this way,” Boris says pointing in the opposite direction.

They set off on Boris’ chosen path and it’s not long before he can feel Valera leaning on him more with every step. To keep him awake he asks him questions.

“How did you know about the Blue Diamond?”

“Academic conference. Five years ago.”

“I am shocked Valery Alekseyevich. I thought you were a good Communist.”

“I am! I am!”

“To be so tempted by decadent Westerners. It is a bad thing.”

“I didn’t want to offend my hosts.”

Boris nods, mollified for now.

“And Otto?”

“Oh, Otto. He tried to blackmail me. He had pictures of me in the booth with a young man. Wanted me to defect. Or work for the British as a spy.”

“What?!” Boris roars. “What did you tell him?”

“I told him ‘no, thank you, I’m a good Party man.’ And that he could submit the pictures to the KGB and they would add them to the growing album of my...er...indiscretions.”

“Goddamn, Valera. And you went back there?”

“He did show me a good time.”

“You’re crazy.”

“Perhaps. But it was fun, yes?”

“Yes,” Boris says reluctantly. “Wait. Valera, do you think Andre has photos of us?”

“I’m quite certain of it,” Valera says matter of factly, almost cheerfully.

Boris imagines the pictures. Fuck. His career is over.

“I can’t believe you would be so irresponsible. You shit. We’re dead,” Boris, says feeling the blood rush from his face.

“We’re already dead. I wanted to give you a good time. A night you’d never forget,” Legasov says, sounding stung.

Boris wrings his hands to keep from wrapping them around Legasov’s neck. “You may have a file full of indiscretions but I don’t. This is the first time I ever did anything like this. I’ve never even touched another man before you.” He feels sick. He’s going to kill Legasov.

Legasov says nothing and pulls away. Boris glares at him, livid. Legasov turns his face away, seeming to shrink from him.

“Well, say something! We have to think.”

“Stop panicking, Boria,” Legasov says, in an exasperated tone tone. “You know the Party hates a panicker. You will be approached. Did you think you would not be approached?” Legasov asks, crossing in front of Boris to block his path. ”There’s not a scientist in my position who isn’t approached every couple of years or so. You get used to it.”

“They’ll never let me out of the country again.”

“They let me out!” Legasov’s eyes are wide, his jaw clenched tight.

“You’re the head of the delegation.”

“Precisely. They don’t do that if they think you’ll flip. I won’t flip,” Legasov says, tucking his thumb under his lapel, like the famous picture of Lenin. “They have me and they know it. A known quantity is valuable to them. Even one who commits indiscretions. _Especially_ one who commits indiscretions. They own me. I don’t care.”

Boris sighs, rubbing his sore jaw. He feels suddenly very sober. In retrospect the whole evening was foolhardy from beginning to end. He can’t believe he let Legasov take the reigns. Disaster.

“When you are approached, Boria. What will you say?” Legasov asks, lowering his tone, putting his hand on Boris’ shoulder.

Boris pushes the hand away. He wants to shout at him not to use his name. But they can’t go back to that. Besides “Deputy Minister Shcherbina” is such a mouthful. They carry on in silence. Legasov is moving under his own power a few paces behind. Boris can hear his clumsy footsteps. He stops and takes Valera’s elbow the way he would help an old lady across the street.

“It’s all well and good for you, but I have a wife. A family. What if they threaten to send the photos...” Boris stomach is churning. He really feels like he might vomit.

“Oh, they will. We’re counting on it.”

“What?!”

“Look, Boria. It’s all been worked out in advance. Trust me.”

“I wouldn’t trust you as far as I can throw you.”

“To be fair, you could probably throw me pretty far.”

“Don’t you dare joke about this!” Boris shouts. He can feel panic sweat popping out on his face and neck, driving his fury. He should have had Legasov thrown out of that helicopter when he had the chance.

“Sorry,” Legasov says quietly. Boris stops to study him. Something like genuine remorse is written on Legasov’s face.

“What do they want?” Boris asks flatly. He is suddenly too tired to shout.

“They want you, Boris,” Legasov says hoarsely. What a day, he’s had and he’s still lecturing, Boris thinks. “They wouldn’t come for me. Like I said, I’m a known quantity. But for you, they will bring out the big guns. For a Hero of Socialist Labour. Christ, Boria they’ve never gotten this close to pulling someone like you. You are larger than life to them.”

“Quit trying to flatter me, Legasov.”

“I’m not. It’s just the truth. Charkov said this was the way to do it.”

“Charkov is in on this?”

“Yes. He told me that the head of Vienna station, some fellow named Pym 4, is crooked. He’s one of ours. Has been for years. Anything they get will go through him and be killed before they can act on it. So Andre’s little photo essay won’t make it out of Vienna. Don’t worry.”

Boris wants to be relieved, but he doesn’t trust Legasov any more. His assurances are either foolishness or more manipulation. Boris walks faster. He can feel Legasov struggling to keep up. He takes a malicious pleasure in dragging him down the street, tightening his grip on Legasov’s bony elbow. His brain is firing fast now. His own feet can barely keep up.

“Why? Why do this now? I don’t understand. I just want to go home.”

“Because of the data I left out of my report. I need to get it to the West. Otherwise, Boria, it will happen again. Another accident.”

It comes like a punch in the gut. So this was the deal with the KGB that Boris had been so keen to put forward. Of course. He should have known. 

“This was your deal with Charkov?”

“Yes,” Valera says almost under his breath.

Boris’s mind races, running through possibilities, crossing out variables. In his own fumbling way, he is working it out...

“One thing bothers me with this plan. If the head of Vienna station, this what’s his name?”

“Yes. Pym.”

“If this Pym is crooked, how do we know your data will get through? Won’t he just turn it back over to the KGB?”

“They won’t send Pym, Boris,” Legasov says, sounding impatient.” That’s why we need you. For you, they will send someone higher up the chain.”

And the last piece slots into place. The solution to the formula. Elegant in its simplicity. Ugly in its truth.

“So, I’m bait.” Boris says. He can feel tears of fury starting to spring up in his eyes. He bites his lip, looks at Legasov for a sign. All that reflects off Legasov’s glasses in the dark is the light of the street lamp. Boris can’t read him.

“Yes, I suppose you could say that.”

He supposes! Boris grinds his teeth and walks faster. He is practically dragging him along. A stranger passing by would think him abusing this poor, fumbling school teacher. But Boris knows the truth. This absent minded professor bit is wearing thin. Legasov has thought this through, calculated and planned it from the beginning. Boris wonders, as his guts churn, how deep the plan goes. Is Legasov’s slightly impersonal touch, the very thing that drives Boris to the depths of depravity, a result of this same calculation?

Legasov stumbles and nearly falls. Boris slackens his pace, looks back at him, anger spent for the moment. Pity takes over, he lessens his grip on Legasov’s arm.

“And what do I do?” Boris asks at last, defeated.

“I’m not sure. Whatever it is will be simple. Charkov assured me of that. It will be over before you know it.”

Boris’ head is pounding. He slows his pace, feeling dizzy. Maybe it is the cocaine. But probably not. He wants to lie down in the street. To sink into the gutter.

“Let’s find this hotel, Boria.”

“Hotel? You think I’m going to a hotel with you now? Fuck you, Legasov! Fuck you again and again.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Could it be that you lured me to a club? Seduced me for cameras? Exposed me to people that could ruin my life? Was this the plan all along, since Pripyat?”

“Boria, no--”

“Don’t! Call me that! Don’t.”

“I’m sorry,” Legasov says. Boris stops and looks back at him, studies his face in the light of a street lamp. Legasov still has that haunted look. The one he’s seen so many times since April.

“I would never hurt you. I--”

“Shut up!” Boris shouts and walks two steps away. He stops, turns and paces back to where Legasov is still standing, looking haunted. “The worst part about this is that I thought you had integrity. I believed in you. When you looked at me with those cow eyes and said you couldn’t take the lying. Were you lying then?”

“No. I didn’t know about any of this. I swear,” Legasov says, his voice rising, sounding panicked.

“When, then? When did you know?”

“Just before the conference. Charkov picked me up on the street. At first, I refused. You have to believe I did, but then Charkov said it was the only way; said that the Party would bury the facts about the reactors. This is our insurance that they won’t.”

Boris listens. It makes a terrible kind of sense. Deep down he believes Legasov, but he just feels so used. He was cheated on once, by a girlfriend. This feels worse.

“So, of all the men you’ve burned: the miners, the divers, the biorobots.5 You saved the biggest match for me, Valery Alekseyevich.”

“It was the only way. Do you think I wanted to?”

“You seem very adept. You are a natural spy.”

“I suppose I am. I’ve spent my whole life hiding in one way or another,” Legasov says, his voice breaking. And there it is: you can’t trust a man who lives his life as a lie. No matter what the reason for the lie, good or bad.

“I should have known not to trust you. I can’t believe what a fool I’ve been. Falling for a ..” He thinks of the letter he sent, back in his days in the army. The supply captain whose job he’d wanted. What had he called him? Boris can’t bring himself to say it. He is no better. He is worse somehow.

Boris slows his pace to almost nothing. Legasov catches up with him, breathing heavy.

“I’m dying. You know that. Dying for my country. I didn’t intend to, but there it is.”

“I wish you wouldn’t say that.”

“Why? Because you’re dying too?”

“No! Because I don’t want to feel sorry for you. You don’t get to be noble. Not after tonight.”

“There’s nothing I can do to stop it. But I can make my life count for something.”

“Do me a favor Valery Alekseyavich. Save the martyr’s speech for someone who cares.” Boris drops his arm and walks away, toward what he doesn’t know.

“What are you going to do?” Legasov calls after him.

“I’m going to bed. Alone. I’m tired.” Boris shouts, walks a few more paces and looks up one end of the street and down the other. No cabs. It’s quiet. He turns a corner. He can hear Legasov shadowing him, struggling to keep up. He pictures that funny walk of his: the way he kicks out with each step as if there might not be solid ground beneath him. “Goddamn it!” he says and turns and goes back for him.

“This doesn’t mean anything. Understand?” Boris says, putting Legasov’s arm over his shoulder, snaking his arm around Legasov’s waist. “I wouldn’t let a dog collapse in the street. And after the day you’ve had…”

“Thank you Boris Yevdokimovich.”

Under the guise of bringing home a friend who’s had one too many, Boris practically carries Legasov into the lobby. He deposits him in a chair in the lobby. Legasov hands him some notes from the envelope in his jacket. Boris secures the room and orders a wake-up call for six and a taxi for six-fifteen. When he returns to the lobby, Legasov is asleep. Boris suppresses the urge to shake him awake violently. Instead, he stands there watching him: you would never know he was sick. His skin is a healthy brown, his hair lightened from his summer outdoors, and his eyebrows have bleached out completely. Nothing like a little fresh air and gamma radiation to give one that healthy glow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. According to _Midnight in Chernobyl,_ by Adam Higginbotham, there were six pages of key data redacted from Legasov's report at the Vienna conference. Despite these deliberate over-sights and obfuscations, Legasov was hailed in the press for his truthfulness.
> 
> 2\. In _combinatorics_ , Ulana and Valera get drunk, have bad, awkward sex and Boris ends up putting Valera to bed later.
> 
> 3\. _Tango the Night_ by Falco, from _Falco III_ , which was my constant companion while writing this fic. Did you know there's a version of _Rock Me Amadeus_ where Falcon just shouts, "CHA!" for like two minutes straight?
> 
> 4\. Magnus Pym, head of Vienna Station, in _A Perfect Spy._
> 
> 5\. In the parlance of liquidation, using shifts of people, with limited exposure to radiation, was known as "burning." This also happens to be the word used in the Le Carré universe for blackmail.


	3. August 27, 1986, 5:40 a.m.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's early, but there's never enough time.

Boris lies awake staring up at the ceiling. Legasov lies beside him with his back to Boris, his arm thrown over his face like a man ashamed. Outside, Vienna is waking up. A few cars at first, then traffic. A bus. A car horn. The room grows less dim every minute. They are lying on the bed where they collapsed, still dressed. Though Boris took off both pairs of their shoes. He didn’t want to mess up the bedspread. Boris looks over at the clock and sees Legasov’s glasses folded on the nightstand. In twenty minutes the call will come. They will head back to their hotel, to their separate rooms. 

His mind is jammed with recent events, snippets of past conversations. Why couldn’t Legasov let him in on the operation at the club? Boris might have gone along with it willingly. Perhaps. But he knows Charkov would never let Legasov risk it. 

He looks over at Legasov. Does he even know him? He thought he did. The way he’d manipulated Boris at the club, played him like an instrument. It had been so perfectly timed, so calculating. Boris remembers the desire, the intensity of pleasure. But no. Just because he’d enjoyed himself, didn’t mean he hadn’t been used. He hates how the memory of it makes him feel. Dirty. 

He listens to Legasov breathing. Was he really dying or was that manipulation too? Boris knows deep down it’s not. And worse, he knows he doesn’t want him to die. 

He sits up. This is bullshit. Why should he lie there having arguments in his head? He can have them with Legasov now, while there’s still time. 

He reaches over and shakes Legasov gently. 

“What? What time is it?” Legasov asks, rolling over, blinking awake. He looks even more vulnerable than usual without his glasses. Boris’ heart aches looking at him.

“Still early. I need to say something to you, Valera.”

“You called me ‘Valera.’ Have you forgiven me?” His voice is hopeful. Childish. Boris can do this. He just needs to not look him in the eye and just push through it.

“No. I don’t know. Maybe. But I’m going to say this anyway. I think you should go. Defect.”

“What? No. Do you know what they do with defectors?”

“Torture them?” Boris says a little too eagerly. 

“No. They ignore them. They give you a new identity and they dump you off in one of their suburbs to rot. Charkov told me years ago.”

“Doesn’t sound so bad. Anyway, the doctors are better here. Or seem to be. Maybe they can save you.”

“You’ve been listening to Hans Blix.”

“What if I have? It’s a chance, anyway. I think you should take it.”

“No, listen. My work isn’t done. The RBMK reactors are not safe. I need to work with the scientific community.”

“Take the data you have and give it to the Americans.”

“It’s the British that want me to defect.”

“Fine. The British then,” Boris snaps. “It doesn’t matter. It’s all the same.”

“I can’t. Charkov has it. He kept it as insurance to keep me from leaving,” Valera says yawning, as if he can’t believe Boris hasn’t figured this out on his own.

“He would do that? Hold the lives of millions of people hostage, just to get you to cooperate?”

“You know he would.”

“You’re right. Of course.” Boris sighs. “You’re trapped, then.” 

Valera sits up, puts on his glasses and looks at Boris as if something has occurred to him.

“You could go,” Valera says.” You might be in need of Western medical care. You’ve had the same doses as me.”

“No. I’m fine. I’m fine. Did you know, at the hospital they wanted to shave my head. I wouldn’t let them. My hair never fell out.”

“That doesn’t necessarily mean--”

“Look, Valera. It’s fine. I have my work too. There’s the sarcophagus. That’s not going to build itself. Do you think I’m going to let those assholes from Sredmash 1 fuck it up? Like hell.”

Legasov laughs. “Alright, Boria. We’re both trapped.”

Boris lies back against the pillow, runs his hand across the cool, smooth fabric of the cover, absently. He leaves his hand there, fingers splayed out. Valera covers it with his own, gripping it the way you would to arm wrestle or rescue a drowning man. Boris feels something break loose inside him, and Valera’s hand is the only thing the only thing keeping him grounded and steady.

I wish we could go. Both of us.” Valera says, quietly. “Wish we could live out or days together. Here, in Vienna.”

Boris’ face twists with emotion. Valera reaches over and smoothes it with his fingers. Boris closes his eyes which are burning with exhaustion and emotion, as Valera’s hand works its way to the base of Boris’ skull, pulling him into a kiss. Boris resists at first, pulling back weakly, but then gives way to desire. He wants to believe in him. Still wants him after everything. He kisses him back, exploring his mouth with his own, rolling across the bed, pushing his weight down on top of him. Forgetting himself.

The phone rings--their wake up call. The ringer is impossibly loud. Valera startles. Boris winces at the noise.

“Just as well, that we can’t defect,” Boris says trying to sound light and jovial, though the words stick in his throat. He rolls off of Valera. “My wife would kill me.” 

He picks up the phone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. The Soviet Ministry of Medium Machine Building or Sredmash (pronounced Shred Mash) was responsible for building the concrete and steel structure, the Sarcophogus, which was built over the remains of Reactor Four. In real life Shcherbina did take part in the construction.


	4. August 27, 1986, 6:05 a.m.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An early morning phone call.

Valera is in the shower. Boris toys with the idea of joining him but there isn’t time. 

Yesterday seemed endless. Every second moved with a palpable slowness. But the Earth turned and by now Valera’s media triumph is part of the record. He is safe forever in the hands of the KGB.  _ A circle of accountability _ Charkov had called it. And Boris is in the circle now too. But perhaps it is naive to believe that he wasn’t before. That his record was truly spotless.  _ Now who’s being naive _ , Ulana had said. Ulana. 

Boris retrieves one of the yellow notes from his pocket and phones her. 

“Do you know what time it is?!” she grumbles.

Boris laughs. Yes, he knows the time. He’s never been more aware of it.

“I hope you are looking after him.” Her voice is faint. Boris hears clicking on the line. The Minders. He wonders how much Ulana knows.

“I am. I am,” he barks.

“Good.”

“Do you want to talk to him?” Boris asks, and then because he is suddenly angry with her, for whatever it was that happened between her and Valera--he’s still not exactly sure, “He’s in the shower. He’ll be out in a minute.”

Ulana is quiet. He has hit back at her and it does not help at all. What’s more Boris knows the line is bugged. He doesn’t care. He realizes now that the Minders already know, that they have perhaps known all along, since their first fumbling kiss in the wedding banquet hall of the Polissya Hotel--before even Boris and Valera knew what was happening. 

“No. It’s alright,” she says at last. “I wanted to ask him about the data in the report.”

Boris laughs again, hating her a little for having the presence of mind to keep her mind on business after everything and for being smart enough not to get mixed up in all this. “He said that’s why you’d called. He knew.”

“And to make sure he is alright, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Make sure he eats. He’s losing weight.”

“I know. I am. I will.”

“Tell him...tell him, we’ll talk soon. When he gets back.”

“Alright. We will be home soon. We are practically there already.” Boris hangs up.

Valera comes out of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, scrubbing at his wet hair with a hand towel. The sight of him half naked and flushed pink is too much. Boris looks away, busies himself putting on his shoes. If he gets distracted they will miss their cab.

“Who were you on the phone to just now?” Valera asks, turning and dropping the towel, heading back into the bathroom. 

Boris glimpses Valera’s ass out of the corner of his eye. Jesus fuck. 

“No one. Just the front desk.” Boris says, raising his voice a little to be heard over...is that more water running? 

Boris stands, gets ahold of himself before taking a step closer to the bathroom, “Get a move on. We’re going to be late.”


	5. August 27, 1986, 8:20 a.m.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Room service.

Boris wants to talk to Valera. Well not _just_ talk. But talking is part of it. He could walk down the hall and knock on his door, but he thinks the phone seems more impersonal and that he’d best make a show of his indifference for the Minders. If he is going to play the game, then goddamn it, he will play.

“We should go over your itinerary for the day,” Boris says with forced brightness when Valera answers.

There’s a pause and some throat clearing. Boris thinks he hears a cigarette being lit. Or perhaps it is the Minders. They really should take more care. They are growing so bold.

“I’ve ordered breakfast for us,” he adds.

“Well,” Valera starts. Boris can hear him shuffling papers.“I think continental breakfast is served at the conference.”

“What’s that? Continental breakfast? Fuck Continental breakfast. It’s just pastries and yogurt with that mueslix crap. Get your tail over here. I’ve got sausage on the way.” He slams the phone down with a grin. There is a knock at the door a few moments later. Too soon. Boris thinks. He should play it cool. But it is the waiter with the room service cart and Boris is soon occupied with trying to sign the check and figure a tip. Valera arrives with his conference tote bag and his hair damp from the shower. Did he take _another_ shower? Well why not. The hot water is seemingly endless in the West. Or perhaps it was Valera playing the game. The thought of Valera in the shower distracts Boris momentarily as remembers his flushed pink skin,his ass as he dropped the towel. Boris over-tips the waiter.

The waiter leaves and Boris crosses the room in a few steps, touching his finger to his lips. He pulls Valera into a hug and stands there holding him, feeling his warmth, smelling the hotel shampoo in his hair. He draws him closer, until their hip bones touch, as in the tango. They are silent as long as they dare before Boris finally releases him and says, “We should eat while it’s hot.”

“Yes,” Valera says and sits down absently. Boris’ eyes feel bloodshot, stinging against the bright sunlight coming in the window near where they are seated. He thinks he sees tears in Valera’s eyes. 


	6. August 27, 1986, 3:15 p.m.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected meeting.

Boris is standing outside the conference hotel, in the shade, smoking a cigarette. There is a fountain nearby and the breeze occasionally blows a bit of spray over him. 

“Got a light?” The voice comes from behind him. He turns. A hunched old man in a coat too warm for the day reaches out with the unlit end of his cigarette. Boris hands him a box of matches. 

“You here for the conference?” Boris asks casually.

“Not exactly,” the man says in Russian. The man lights his cigarette and blows smoke, careful to direct it away from Boris. The breeze blows it in his face anyway.

“Mozart then?”

The man lets out a dry chuckle and and extends his hand with the matchbox. When Boris reaches for them, the man grabs his wrist. He’s surprisingly strong for such an old man. He is tall, too, straightening to his full height he is as tall as Boris. The hunching, Boris realizes with growing unease, was an act to draw Boris in.

The man laughs. “Boris Yevdokimovich. I’m here for you.” The man smiles. His teeth are brown and broken with neglect or abuse. Possibly both.

“Charkov sent you,” Boris says, pulling away with effort.

“There is no person of that name in my acquaintance. I am here because we have a mutual friend in common. A certain Andre.” 

Boris stiffens. Moves his feet into a fighting stance. The man’s speech is formal but it hides hints of something underneath. Czech perhaps?

“What about Andre?”

“Andre is possessed of certain information. He has a nasty habit of taking pictures when no one is looking.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Boris says, doing his best to sound confused, though the memory of Andre and the club sends a flash of heat through his body.

“Come now, Boris Yevdokimovich. Let’s be grownups now. Quit playing children’s games. In exchange for our promise that these photos will be destroyed, we need certain information from you.”

“I don’t have anything. The KGB has it all.”

“It will be provided for you shortly. And then you will make an exchange.”

“If I refuse?”

“You won’t. If you know what’s good for you and your - friend, Valery Legasov.”

Boris wants to laugh. This old man has watched one too many movies. Still, somebody kicked in his teeth. Boris doesn’t want to find out what that is like.

“If I were to agree, where would the exchange happen?”

“At dinner this evening. Look for a man who smokes a pipe. He will ask you for a light.”

Boris takes the matches and puts them back in his pocket, not taking his eyes off of the man.

“You’d better get going Mr…”

“My friends call me Axel.1"

“You don’t want the KGB to pick you up, Axel.” Boris says caustically, with a glance over his shoulder. The Minders are nowhere to be seen.

Axel smiles. God, Boris wishes he wouldn’t do that. “We are on the same side Boris Yevdokimovich.”

“I don’t think so. What’s this man’s name? There may be more than one man with a pipe at dinner.”

“It is doubtful. But I will indulge you. He goes by many names. Though he is known to us as Brotherhood.2”

“Brotherhood. Interesting name. Full of meaning.”

“It is meant to be ironic. I’ve always thought it was a bit heavy-handed, myself. I prefer plain old Axel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Axel is a Czech agent in _A Perfect Spy._ He "flips" Magnus Pym.  
> 2.Jack Brotherhood is a British agent in _A Perfect Spy._ He recruits Magnus Pym to the "secret world."


	7. August 27, 1986, 5:05 p.m.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An interlude in the country

The Hans Blix estate, Furstendömet, is a gated affair complete with a guard house and miles of electric fencing, occupying hundreds of acres in the sunny foothills of the Austria alps. The name means Little Kingdom, as the brochure for the Vienna conference cheerfully explains. The entire Soviet, American and British delegations are being delivered to Furstendömet for an intimate supper with 50 people. Boris is in the second car in a convoy of all terrain vehicles that glides up the beautifully smooth Austrian roads. What the Ukraine couldn’t do with roads like this. His contractor’s heart skips a beat at the thought of the scores of machines and the quantity of asphalt required to keep such a road, high in altitude and bitten by every kind of weather, so perfectly smooth. Fuck the West, but goddamn if they don’t have good roads.

Valera is riding in the lead car and it’s just as well. Boris doesn’t trust himself around him. Their breakfast went well enough, but Boris had nearly died when Valera had grabbed his knee under the table. Then Boris had gone to kiss Valera’s hand and found it all pink and pruned from the shower. He was struck by an urge to drag him to the bed and fuck him. In the end Boris ate most of the food while Valera reviewed his notes and drank most of the coffee. Boris did manage to get a few bites of sausage into him at least. That was something.

Mitsi Blix and her staff of twenty odd secretaries, maids, gardeners, caterers, and general help are waiting to greet them when they arrive. Mitsi is trim, blonde and fifty-ish. The same age as Boris’ wife, Svetlana, but younger looking. Money will do that. She is freckled and muscled from the tennis court, which according to the brochure, rivals any professional facility in the country. 

The Minders were left at the gate house where they will play cards, drink kirschwasser and hopefully forget their jobs for the evening. The American delegation have their own set of Minders in mirrored glasses and ear pieces with little wires, like transparent pigtails, trailing down their necks. Boris hopes they lose all of their American dollars playing cards with the KGB. Fuck the CIA. 

Boris soon finds himself trailing after Valera and Mitsi, who has a strong lock on his elbow and is guiding him on a tour of Furstendömet. They speak French, and Boris can only pick out the occasional phrase. But as they venture further across the grounds they switch to Russian.

“How do you know Russian?” Valera asks.

“My parents were from Karelia.1”

“My wife is from Karelia,” Boris says matter of factly. “We met after the war.2”

“A terrible time for everyone, but I’m glad it brought you some happiness.” Mitsi says with a tight grimace.

“You haven’t met my wife,” Boris jokes. Mitsi looks appalled. She changes the subject to the gardens, the varieties of berries that she grows for jam, and the varying success her gardener has with re-growing transplants from their home in Uppsala. They walk beyond the fruit trees to a kind of fairy forest, too clean and pruned to be real. There is a series of tiny dachas dotted around the woods. 

“It’s a kind of hunting cabin,” Mitsi explains mostly to Valera. Boris has been lagging behind, distracted by the scenery, trying to get his nerves under control. “We collect them. The locals make them for us sometimes. Others we find dilapidated in the woods. Hans has them dragged home and we fix them up and put them here. That way someone can love them.” 

Valera and Mitsi move out of sight. Boris is enchanted by one of the dachas. The timbered roof drips with intricate carvings. The door has a heart shaped hole in it, inlaid with a darker wood. He climbs the little steps and pushes on the door and is delighted to find it open. He looks in, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness of the cabin. He opens the shuttered window and sunlight streams in. The place smells a little closed up and musty, like his dacha back home on the first day of the season. There is a miniature hearth with a single small log in the grate. He could stay here forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Karelia is a Republic between Finland and Russia. It's official language is Russian, but many people speak Finnish and Swedish.  
> 2\. Boris Shcherbina was a veteran of the "Winter War" in Finland in 1939. It is plausible that he would have at least crossed through Karelia.


	8. August 27, 1986, 6:30 p.m.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A gathering storm

Boris is standing on a patio smoking and watching the sunset with half a dozen other men. Hans Blix does not allow smoking in the house. Their host has made sure little cards were tacked up in every room thanking you for not smoking. Out of the corner of his eye, Boris spots a man with a pipe down at the far end of the patio. Boris turns away, hiding his shaking hands in his pockets. He thinks of Axel’s shaking hands. Maybe it happens to all spies. 

Brotherhood is middle-aged but ruggedly handsome, with wavy brown hair. He wears a worn tweed jacket--the picture of the English country gentleman. He is a less repellant enemy than the Americans, but he is an enemy none-the-less. 

“I can’t seem to keep this blasted thing lit,” Brotherhood says, holding out his pipe with a steady hand.

Boris’ English is practically non-existent but he has studied these few sentences of code for the occasion. While Valera attended the final session of the conference, Boris had mouthed the words over and over.

Boris hands him a box of matches from his pocket. Inside there is a microfilm, provided by Charkov and hand delivered to Boris’ room by the hotel’s night manager. The film contains the six pages of data that Valera left out of his talk. Boris hopes it is enough. That he’s not throwing his life away with these matches.

“Thanks, comrade,” Brotherhood says.

“You’re welcome.” Boris manages.

Afterward, Valera finds him on the deck still clinging to the railing, watching pink and purple clouds gather on the horizon. It looks like a storm is heading their way.

“Is it over?” Valera whispers.

“Yes.”

“It went smoothly?”

“I suppose. It’s out of my hands, thank Christ.”

“Any regrets?”

“I would have liked to have seen the Mozarthaus.”

“I mean about the other thing. You know, staying here.”

“What’s done is done, Valera. No turning back.”

Valera exhales. Lights a cigarette, leans in so that his shoulder touches Boris. 

“I love you,” Valera says, his voice quiet as the smoke. Boris’ heart threatens to seize. He stares at the clouds: definitely a storm. 

“Give me that,” Boris says, taking the cigarette from Valera’s fingers with a still trembling hand. He takes a long drag and blows it out across the Blix’s manicured lawn. Let him sweat a minute. It is all the revenge Boris will ever get. Finally, he looks back at Valera who is wearing that same haunted expression that is by now so familiar.

“Come on, Valery Alekseyevich. Give me a smile.”

Valera manages a half grin, his gap-teeth peeking through. It is enough.

“I love you too,” he growls in Valera’s ear, grinding the cigarette out on the railing. He is tempted to flick the butt onto the lawn but he imagines Mitsi’s horror at finding it, and the possible international incident that could ensue. He tucks it in his pocket instead.


	9. August 27, 1986, 8:33 p.m.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the tiny dacha...

After dinner, the smokers on the patio outnumber the guests remaining inside. Valera and Boris make their way out onto the lawn, walking along, smoking. At a discreet distance from the house, Boris takes Valera’s hand. 

“Come on, my love, I want to show you something.” 

He leads Valera into the fairy forest, to the little dacha with the heart on the door. The first drops of rain fall as they climb the steps. At the door, Boris stops, takes Valera in his arms and kisses him. The rain is pelting down in huge drops, laden with water. In seconds the rain penetrates their hair, their clothes. By the time Boris gets the door open and gets Valera inside, they are already soaked. 

Boris lights a candle that was left on the small table. He holds it up and light falls around the  room.

“Bed’s not very big,” Valera complains, looking around. 

“It’s big enough. We won’t be sleeping anyway.”

Valera laughs. Boris’ heart does a little dance. The cabin is suddenly lit as if someone threw a searchlight on them. A split second later a deafening thunder crash, somewhere very nearby, sends Valera skittering across the cabin to where Boris is standing, rummaging through the cupboards.

Boris smiles at him.

“Calm down, love. Have a seat.”

“What are you doing there, anyway?”

“Looking for this,” Boris says holding up a small bottle. He removes the stopper, takes a sniff. “Olive oil, I think. Had to make sure I didn’t get the vinegar.”

Valera looks confused in the candlelight. Boris thinks it’s a look that suits him. But the gears turn, the adding machine clicks and whirs into place. 

“You work fast, Boris Evdochimovich.”

“I’m forced to. We don’t have much time.”

The sound of the rain on the roof is a roar in the tiny dacha. Boris toes off his shoes on the little rag rug, and places them neatly by the door. He removes his damp coat and tie, folding them over the back of a chair. He watches as Valera does the same or makes an attempt, at any rate: Valera is stuck in the wet sleeves of his coat until Boris helps free him. Boris takes Valera’s cool, rain-slicked hand and pulls him into an embrace, places a tender kiss on his damp forehead. He doesn’t care who fucks who, how and in what order things happen. It is a mere detail at this point. It is about squeezing every bit of experience out of the time they have left, as much as satiating any desire. As if they could. It is a fire that burns and nothing can douse it. All the liquid nitrogen in the Soviet Union can not cool it. There will be other times perhaps, but nothing guaranteed so they will make this here, this now, count for something. 

Valera undoes the buttons on his shirt. Boris watches him, unbuttoning his own. He remembers that first time in Pripyat how shy he’d felt undressing in front of Valera. He works the buttons faster, hands shaking again, but not with nerves. Pure excitement. He pulls off his shirt, not taking his eyes off Valera, looking his fill. Valera’s forearms are tanned--a dense collection of freckles carpeted together-- like a farmer, where he rolled his sleeves up in the heat of July. His biceps are larger than they appear under his ill-fitting shirts. Valera pulls off his undershirt, his hands crossed at the hem, like a girl. Boris ducks a shoulder out of his own undershirt, peels it off over his head. Valera’s trousers are ill-fitting as well. This particular pair is about half an inch too short for him, and baggy in the back. It is only when he sits down on the bed to remove his socks, that Boris can see the outline of his cock beneath the fabric. He dresses to the left. Boris had never noticed that before. While seated, Valera takes off his glasses and places them carefully on the little table. Boris will never tire of looking at him without his glasses. It is a whole different face. Without the flare of light off the lenses, Boris can see the real color of his eyes: an icy, gray blue. 

Valera stands and undoes his trousers. Boris stops undressing and watches as Valera kicks his trousers aside and pulls down the waistband of his underwear, turning away from Boris. In the candlelight, Valera’s back and ass are a sight. He is leaner, muscles defined, illness having carved away the doughiness. His shoulderblades...Jesus fuck. Boris can’t take it anymore. He crosses to Valera and grabs him from behind, wrapping his arms around his chest, burying his face in the nape of Valera’s neck, smelling the rain. Or something like it. Ozone. The smell of radiation1. The smell of a summer storm.

“Boris, I want you to--”

“I know. I will. I’m just…” He puts one hand on Valera’s shoulder and pulls him around. Looks him in the eye, gets distracted by the expression there, so loving, so vulnerable. Valera’s mouth is open slightly. Boris runs his hand along Valera’s jaw, over the rasp of tiny red beard hairs glowing orange in the candlelight. Valera closes his eyes and leans into a kiss. He pulls Valera closer, till their naked bodies are burning against each other, feels Valera’s cock respond as his own juts into Valera’s belly. Jesus fuck, he wants to take him now. Boris breaks the kiss, suddenly remembering what he had been about to ask. “Valera, you’re going to have to walk me through it.”

Valera laughs. He sits down on the tiny bed with his back against the wall. He takes Boris’ hand and gently guides him to sit down on top of him, straddling him. Boris feels the heat of Valera’s thighs burning into his own, traces Valera’s chest hair with his hand, down his abdomen, coming to rest on his belly. 

“Get that bottle, will you?” Valera asks. Boris reaches across the tiny cabin and grabs the olive oil from the table where he left it.

Valera pours oil into his palm, warms it, rubbing it between his hands. He takes Boris’ hard cock in his hands and Jesus fuck, strokes it firmly a few times. He drops his cock and takes Boris’ hands, rubbing them together with his own, mingling the oil between them. Valera lies back on the bed, grinning up at Boris with his gap-toothed smile.

“Quit smiling, Valera. I’ll never get through this.”

Valera laughs again, pulls the full weight of Boris’ body down on top of him, works one knee underneath him. Boris tilts to accommodate him, gripping his leg behind the knee, but his hand is very slick, so Boris grips tighter, worrying his thumb across Valera’s kneecap.

“That tickles.” Valera laughs.

“Be serious, Valery Alekseyovich. I’m trying to fuck you.”

Valera laughs, short of breath, perhaps Boris’s weight is too much. He shifts his weight onto his side and Valera brings his other knee up, pins it against Boris’ shoulder. Valera guides Boris’ hand down to his balls which Boris engulfs with his palm. Valera groans, but cuts him short tugging his hand away, guiding him lower. Boris never takes his eyes off of Valera, waits for him to flinch or pull back. Valera has a pleading look in his eyes as Boris’ finger moves cautiously, slowly inside him. He can see, can feel Valera’s cock twitch against his stomach.

“I want you to say it,” Boris whispers.

“Say what, Boria?” Valera asks, grinning like a jackal. 

“You know.”

“Oh that.” Valera says, clearing his throat as if about to give a speech. Boris works his fingers in deeper, hears Valera’s breath coming faster, ragged. “Fuck me, Boris. I want you to fuck me.” Valera guides Boris’ cock into him and Boris thinks, of all things, of the man he ratted out with the letter2. The words he used. Heard other men use to describe this. They were all wrong words. All false. Perhaps there is some anger there still, some feeling of betrayal about the night before. Boris doesn’t know. As he props himself up on his arms and thrusts into Valera, hears his voice breaking still trying to say “fuck me,” the pitch higher, more animal, the wind gone from his lungs, Boris doesn’t care. They own him now. He is one of them. He doesn’t care.

Boris presses on, the full length of his body like a lever, slamming into Valera. He is gripped by an impossibly tight embrace, pulled in deeper than he ever thought possible, deeper than he knew he wanted to go. It is a lot to take on board at once, the realization. He does not think he can last long against it. Valera’s head is thrown back, his throat exposed, vulnerable. Boris sees his mark there and remembers making it, remembers the mock disappointment of the girl, Lola. though the anger and humiliation of the night seem far away. Perhaps they can fuck them away completely. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. While radiation has no taste or smell, many survivors of the Chernobyl accident and liquidation reported smelling ozone in the areas that were most contaminated.
> 
> 2\. In _combinatorics_ , Boris recalls an episode in the army when he wrote an anonymous letter about a supply officer that was suspected of being homosexual. He did it because he wanted the man's job.


	10. August 27, 1986, 9:33 p.m.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the storm

Boris lies sweating with Valera collapsed and dozing on top of him in the little bunk. His heart is so full. He feels shaky and weak with exhaustion and emotion, but he won’t sleep. He refuses to miss a second of this: the weight of Valera’s dear head on his chest, the sound of the rain on the roof of the tiny dacha. He would kill for a cigarette, but a card on the tiny table thanks them for not smoking. 

Mitsi Blix looks out at the dispersing clouds and announces that the storm has passed. She expects their Russian guests will return as soon as they are ready to leave whatever shelter they have taken.

In the guard house, the Minders lose their last schilling to the CIA men who have run some sort of sting involving their pigtails. The poor KGB never stood a chance against superior Western tech.

Jack Brotherhood’s car coasts down the steep road toward Vienna. He rolls down the window, smells the ozone on the night air, and splashes deliberately through a big puddle at the base of the valley. He has the match box tucked safely away in the breast pocket of his tweed jacket.

+++ 

Boris and Valera sit naked on the steps of the little dacha sharing Valera’s last cigarette. The clouds have blown away and the moon is up. Boris reaches over and traces a freckle on Valera’s shoulder, passing the cigarette to Valera for the final drag. 

“It is a pity,” Boris says with a yawn.”There ought to be a lake here. I would love a swim.”

“There’s a pool. Back toward the house.”

“Not the same. Have you ever swum in a lake, Valera?”

“Once. The Kurchatov Institute keeps a dacha. They call it ‘summer school.’ I usually avoid the place, but there have been years when I could not escape it. Their lake, more a pond really, was weedy and tepid. I got a leech on my ass. Never again.”

Boris laughs. “The water was too warm. You need a cold lake. Leeches don’t like the cold.”

Valera stubs out the cigarette, leaning back, placing his weight against Boris’ body. Boris puts his arm across Valera’s chest, feeling his heart beating beneath the palm of his hand. He sees Valera’s back and shoulders and ass, beautiful in the moonlight, gliding across the black mirror of the lake, diving under the water in his mind.

“Tell me about your wife,” Valera says.

“What do you want to know?” Boris asks, lifting his head in surprise. He supposes his remark to Mitsi earlier brought it to Valera’s mind.

“What’s she like?”

Boris thinks for a moment. How to sum up Svetlana. Her moods. Her contradictions. “Here is an interesting fact about my wife, Valera: she is technically an American.”

“What?”

“It’s true. She was born in America. Her parents were red Finns who emigrated to Karelia. They were killed in a purge. Svetlana was adopted by good Russians. <sup>1</sup>”

“Well, that’s...unexpected. Does she want to go back? To America?”

“No,” Boris laughs. “She hates America. She is a good Russian, now. She didn’t even know her family history until I found it out for her. She didn’t thank me. Remember that, Valera. They always blame the messenger.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“See that you do. Another thing about my wife, Valera, is that she is a hellcat in bed.” 

He feels Valera’s shoulders tense beneath him. He wishes momentarily that he had the kind of marriage where he could count on sleeping alone. Wishes he could report a cold and empty bed to comfort Valera.

“Boria! Don’t. You make me jealous,” Valera says, biting Boris’ hand playfully.

“You have no right to be jealous. Going into booths at the Blue Diamond with young men.”

“Fair point,” Valera laughs.”But it still hurts. It’s so specific. I don’t want to know.”

“You wanted to know and now you don’t. Another thing for you to remember: Always be light on specifics. No one wants all the details.”

“Right,” Valera says. And after a pause, in a small voice: “So, tomorrow you’ll go back to your hellcat and forget me?”

Boris shakes his head. No one should be allowed to make themselves this vulnerable. It’s a little obscene. It should be forbidden. How has the world not utterly destroyed him?

“No, I’ll never forget you, Valera,” Boris says low in Valera’s ear, running his fingers through Valera’s hair-- still damp from the rain.”Do you know, she never came to see me in the hospital?”

“They probably told her it was dangerous for her.”

Boris scoffs.“Valera, she never even tried. It would have been nice to have her come to the desk, be turned away. You know?”

Valera takes Boris’ hand and kisses the back of it.

“Yes, she is a hellcat,” Boris continues, “but I can’t remember a conversation like this with her. Ever. We rarely speak unless it’s about the kids or the house or some other thing like that. We just don’t have that. Until I met you I thought those things were separate from this. From a physical connection, you know. Brain and body. Separate entities. I never had it. Didn’t know it was possible.”

They are quiet again watching the moon until Valera says, “I have never had this either.” His voice is hoarse, perhaps from the long, long day. Perhaps from some emotion Boris can’t see. “I won’t forget it, either.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Red Finns from America, particularly from the mining areas around the Great Lakes, were encouraged to emigrate to Karelia. Conditions in the mines were poor, and Finnish farmers were given the absolute worst lands to farm. Many of them, loyal to the Communist Party-USA, which was controlled by Moscow at the time, felt it was a better option. Many died of disease brought on by the conditions in Karelia. Those that remained were purged by Stalin. Surviving children were often adopted by Russians and grew up as Russians, often without knowing of their origins as Americans.


	11. Coda: November 10, 1989, 11:00 p.m.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A plan is set in motion

Boris is in the trunk of a car. A 1985 sapphire metallic --the color reminded him of Valera’s eyes, which was ridiculous, but no one would ever know why he chose it-- Audi 5000 with diplomatic plates. Boris loves this car. His idiot driver Evgeny better not put so much as a fucking scratch on it. Evgeny has been instructed to drive straight to the address in Bratislava and leave the car on the street with the keys in the ignition. 

Finally the car stops. Boris straightens himself out as best he can and lights a match. He manages to read his watch. According to instructions, the car will remain for 15 minutes, at which time a different driver will take him across the border into Austria. 

What a time to defect from the Soviet Union: the day after the Berlin Wall comes down. 

To be fair, the plan had been set in motion months before. Boris, long aware of the unstoppable downward spiral of the Union, finally admitted that his health was making work impossible. He called in a few favors. The response had been overwhelming. Everyone loved Boris on every side. He was the real deal. A Hero of Socialist Labour in the truest sense. His father had been a railway worker for fuck’s sake. And here he was dying for his country, still cleaning up other people’s messes, still being the One Good Man. His colleagues, men with serious problems of their own, went out of their way to help. Everyone wanted a hand in, it seemed. The end result was such a complicated plan, involving so many different players from agencies in the Union and the West that, once begun, it couldn’t be stopped. It was an appropriate tombstone for Boris’ career as a party apparatchik that his exit from his job required such a byzantine, ruthless and totally inefficient conspiracy.

It is over. Thank Christ. He is relieved to admit it now. It has been over for months. For years. Chernobyl was the beginning of the end. The earthquake in Armenia, the nail in the coffin. Boris was there. Coughing up blood in a trailer; watching while the cranes pulled the bodies from the collapsed buildings. Brutalist architecture proving fatally true to its name.

Valera has been gone for a year and a half. Charkov released the official time of death as two years to the day, to the hour, to the minute as the explosion in reactor four. That was poetic of him. Boris had underestimated Charkov. Or perhaps he’d never seen what happens when a man who is guilty of truly despicable things attempts to put his hand to doing good for a change. Charkov was hoping to expunge his past by being moderately decent in the present. It wouldn’t work, but Boris wasn’t too proud to accept help from him, especially if it meant saving Valera.

Valera now lives in the suburbs of Vienna. You can see the famous Prater ferris wheel from his apartment, according to Charkov. Valera has a little stipend from the IAEA, in exchange for occasional consultations about matters to do with nuclear power in the Soviet Union. He also goes to a clinic in Switzerland once a month. Charkov says the bone marrow transplant was a success. Boris hopes Valera is eating properly. For himself, he hopes the Swiss doctors will give him a few more years. He would very much like to swim in a lake again.

The engine starts and they are off again. It is a short drive, but the roads are dreadful. And this second driver, whoever they are, is not taking care to go over pot holes slowly. Boris’ head bangs into the roof of the trunk more than once. They stop again, with the engine running.

The line of cars is 50-100 deep at the border, depending on where you cross. (No one is checking trunks. They needn’t have bothered with the diplomatic plates which had been so expensive and necessitated so many of the favors.) The artery is open. The Union is bleeding out.

Boris really needs to piss. He had not thought of this when he agreed to the plan. He had not thought of the cold and his back and his cough, which is nothing if not persistent. 


	12. November 11, 1989, 1:00 a.m.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reunion

Boris is awakened by the sound of the trunk lid popping open. He shields his eyes to the light. Strong arms haul him out of the car. He steps onto Western soil, looking around blinking, searching the unfamiliar faces, a mob of mid-level agents from various security groups in the alphabet soup. They are here to witness the last defection from the Soviet Union. And they are hoping to pad out their hours on their time cards, because things are going to be pretty lean for a while.

“Boris Yevdokimovich Scherbina, Hero of Socialist Labour is now dead,” a voice says in elaborate, accented Russian. The crowd around him parts and an old man in a heavy coat steps into view. It is Axel. Boris shakes his head. And he said that Brotherhood was heavy-handed with the dramatic irony.

“This man, Valery Alekseyevich Legasov, Deputy Director of the Kurchatov Institute is also dead.” Axel steps aside and Valera is there in a wheelchair, blankets piled around him, swaddled in shawls, a hand-knitted wool cap--a gift from Comrade Khomyuk-- pulled down over his mostly-bald head.

“Don’t look so frightened Boria. This is only temporary,” Valera says, his voice papery and thin. He plants his skeletal hands on the armrests of his chair. Boris puts a frozen hand on Valera’s shoulder. Valera takes his hand and brings it up to his warm, moist lips. It is a chaste gesture--certainly nothing more scandalous than a socialist fraternal kiss,1 but Axel and the others look away for a moment, giving them their privacy. 

“Are you well, Boria?” Valera asks, looking up with damp, alive eyes, swimming in the hollows of his skull.

“Well enough,” Boris lies. In truth he is exhausted and terrified, but he is with Valera.

Boris pushes Valera’s chair towards the Audi.

“How does it feel to be dead?” Axel asks, as they pass him by. 

“Rotten,” Boris grouses. “I don’t think my spine will ever be the same.”

“I told them it was a miserable plan,” Valera croaks. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. If you don't know what a "socialist fraternal kiss" is, I'm begging you to google this after you finish reading the story. You won't be disappointed.


	13. November 11, 1989, 3:03 a.m.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another late night phone call

Boris stands in the freezing phone booth outside Valera’s apartment building. The espionage dramatics are probably not necessary, but Valera has the heat blasting and Boris is not yet acclimated. He puts one of Valera’s 20 groschen coins in the slot and dials the Minsk area code. Ulana answers.

“Do you know what time it is?”

Boris laughs. It is a running joke with them. Boris phones very late or early and she always says the same thing. They have come a long way since the day when, thinking Valera dead, they toasted to his memory, drowning their grief in vodka and sex.1

“You asked me to phone when I got here, so I’m phoning.”

“Are you well?”

“Frozen, but in one piece.”

“And our mutual friend?”

“Frail, but coming along. I’ll keep you posted.”

“Good. Is he wearing the hat?”

“He is. It suits him.”

“Does it? It’s an ugly hat. It is warm enough, though and that is what counts.”

It both annoys and endears her to him that she sees through his attempt to flatter her knitting. 

“Yes, you are right. As always” 

“How is it there?”

“Cold. It’s starting to snow,” he says with a shiver looking up at the flakes of snow falling in the glow of a street lamp.

“I’d better let you go.”

“Yes.” He says in no hurry to hang up. Boris watches the time left on the call tick down. He doesn’t have another 20 groschen coin. He can’t find the words for what he wants to say, to tell her that Valera looks awful, but he is still alive. That he still has some mischief, some life left in him. That he will live long enough to continue to fuck up their lives. He wants to tell her that he is terrified of being in this new, foreign place forever. That he is even a little afraid to go back to the apartment, to feel the closeness of the three small rooms, to see Valera’s two four-footed canes that he uses to get from room to room, to see the daunting assembly of pills that cover half of the kitchen table, and know that something similar is coming for him, very soon; to see the tiny hospital-sized bed that Valera sleeps in and to know that he will have to sleep on the fold-out couch. 

“Ulana?”

“Yes?”

“You could come visit, maybe, when the weather improves.”

“Perhaps”

“I’m serious. Promise me you’ll consider it,” Boris says, hoping the invitation will be enough, that he doesn’t need to add: _he needs you. I need you_. 

“I promise I’ll consider it. Call again, soon.”

“I will.”

“Goodnight, Boris.”

“Goodnight.” He hangs up the receiver, gently. He walks a few steps away from the booth, looking both ways before crossing the silent, empty street, leaving footprints in the tinsel-bright, powdery snow. He looks up at the apartment building, not that different in design and execution from the building in Pripyat that he and Valera had selected for their trysts. It is a fitting place for them. All the lights in the building are out, but one. Valera has kept lamp on for him. It’s time to go home.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In _combinatorics,_ Ulana and Boris hook up after they learn that Valera has died. It's awkward and painful...Please go read it because my summaries are not doing it justice. My handwaving here to shoe-horn this into my fix-it, is that Ulana and Boris heard the rumors of Valera's death that Charkov deliberately set in motion. They both found out later that he was alive.


End file.
